Want
by Geniusgirl The Original
Summary: An AU monolugue. The pairing has been done but never, I believe, quite like this. He wants. She wants him. It's different...but isn't that what everyone says?


Want

**AN**: Alternate Universe. A short little piece. Monologue. 

&%&%&%&

We entered. A café of sorts. Vaguely the words "Media Luna" flash across my mind. But then again, it may as well have been "Mezzo Libre". A question. What do I want? The answer: you. The spoken reply: "French Vanilla"

            He feels. What he feels is a mystery to me. Dilandau wants. I know what he wants. There is, of course, the simple fact that taunts him. He cannot have it. Of everything he ever had, he could not get the one thing he wanted. I know how he feels. I have always tried to be like him. 

            He has left. I search. My objective: a table, preferably secluded and as far away from the noise as possible. The noise is becoming unbearable. My target has been spotted. I move. Within seconds I am there, peeling of my black coat and warm white scarf. I do not sit. The coat and scarf rest on the inside stretch of plastic that is commonly referred to as the 'seat' of the booth. I stand facing away from the door. He arrives as my gloves find themselves devoid of hands. 

Our bear hands brush. He has never worn gloves. Dilandau claims to be oblivious to the cold. I believe him. Inside of him there is a fire that no one can see. I do, but then again, he has always said that I would never classify as 'no one'. As I take the cup, a tasteful logo printed onto it, I study his hands. Long fingers, impressive bone structure. People–many people–have said that our hands were made to hold each other. I realise that they were right.  There is no foolish joy to be taken from this. It has always been.

Privileged. We both grew in elite society. Only the higher social classes were acceptable and acknowledged as friends. That is why heads turn as we sit. We are the embodiment of the elite. We ignore them. 

The silence is easy. The awkwardness that inhibits others does not plague us. We have known each other from birth or perhaps longer. It is a comfortable silence. Sips of coffee burn their way pleasantly down my throat and I allow my mind to wander. 

It seems that six months ago was almost an eternity. We sat in this café and pondered the news. They were to be married. Van and Hitomi. Always as lovers, always as friends –they were meant to be. Destined. That was what he wanted. Van. What he still wants. 

Emotions. He was never good with them. There was never any great show of emotion. Feigned happiness and bright counterfeit smiles with falsified surprised graced his beautiful face. I saw through the façade. The sudden flash of emptiness in his eyes. Covered in minutes, of course, but it had been. I saw only because I was looking for it. I'm always 'looking for it' he tells me.  He does not know that I found what I was looking for ages ago. It sits directly across from me, drinking hot Irish crème and I wonder distractedly how it is that he has chosen that particular flavour today. 

Strained was the word to use. Our silence that day had been strained. I had been itching to ask and he was dying to answer. But we would never say it. It was understood, not spoken of. Every move had been tense, calculated and highly controlled. Blinking at the wrong time might have sent either of us over the edge in anger or frustration. He was anger. I was frustration. I'd have to say that's his fetish, anger. His only truly expressed emotion.

I understand now that is why they do not see. They do not notice his pain, his suffering. Their eyes are blind to the way he looks at him, his expression when they share the most casual, chaste physical contact. Their ears are deaf to the tone of his voice when he says his name. Not one of them –not Allen, Millerna, Folken, Merle, Hitomi and definitely not Van– see that it takes an actual physical and mental effort on his part to not reach out and crush Van with the force of his lust. None of them see the amount of effort he puts into constraining himself as they argue. They just do not know. 

Conclusion: I know because I have seen past his exterior. And I know because I too feel that way. Feel that way right now. As I stare at his beautiful face –Dilandau is the only man I would ever consider calling 'beautiful' because he truly is– his pale skin and silvery locks that shadow intensely red eyes that send chills up your spine if they look at you in a particular fashion, I feel what he feels. And I feel it for him. I think that the face is all anyone ever sees of Dilandau. And the ever-present verging-on-violent temper.

Another? Yes, of course I'd like another. He goes. It's his day to buy so I can sit and relax but as soon as he leaves I hear the noise. Its magnitude is pressing in on me. Time to occupy my mind and wait silently for his return. His retreating back shows signs of weariness. He is tired. The wedding is in one month and the preparations are underway. He is helping and so am I. We cannot refuse to help. Despite everything, they are still our friends. We barely managed to get away for our little weekly ritual today. 

Allen and Folken are still being held prisoner by Merle and Hitomi. Thankfully, I was able to get him away. He owes me…big time. I don't think dinner at my house tonight will go so well. I saw the looks Allen was constantly shooting in our direction. He doesn't like Dilandau. He claims we are too close for comfort. Comfort for whom? My last glance at him over my shoulder caught him openly scowling. I think I'll spend the night at Dilandau's. Won't that just make Allen's day?

The cup is paced in front of me. The noise seems to have disappeared with his entrance. He does that for me. He takes away my pain. The problem is, I do not want him to. I want to bear it the way he does. Silence. Suddenly he asks a question. Something or the other about the wedding preparations. He actually thinks about it willingly? I ask him and he cracks a little guilty grin my way. He knows I know. We start a little conversation, nothing too serious. As he speaks I look at him, looking out the window, wanting Van. I sit there, listening to him want Van, wanting him. 

Our coffees are finished. The cups are left along with the silent atmosphere of the table. The unbearable noise returns. He drifts off in some direction, out of my immediate range of vision for a moment. The noise is suffocating. Eyes closed, I breathe. A minute.

"Celena." He says my name. He brings me out of my trance. I have heard him say my name many times in many tones of voice. But never in the ones I crave to hear: Wanting to the point of desperation. Ecstasy. Love. Devotion. Insanity. For Dilandau, insanity equals obsession equals lust. 

I nod. We leave. I register that he is holding the door for me. Small gesture it may be yet it means so much. Perhaps the caffeine has gone to my head, I take such foolish joy. But I do not care. I step out and he follows. With his arm draped across my shoulders we walk towards his apartment. He knows without asking that I do not want to go home. And in his arms, there is no noise. I am oblivious to all but one fact.

Dilandau wants. But not me. I want. Only him. 

&%&%&%&

**AN**: Yeah, a small something I thought up…yes, once again at two in the morning. It's like I have a thing for that time of night. Mainly an experiment with the writing style, I'm trying out the use of present tense for constant action instead of only in the dialogue. It took me two days to finally get this all typed up and edited but here it is for you reading pleasure. Anyway...

Reviews, Comments, Criticism, Rants, Raves and flames are all welcome. Thank you for reading!


End file.
